


What Color Is Your Sports Bra?

by SmutPrince



Category: The Venture Bros
Genre: Ficlet, Large Breasts, M/M, No beta we die like mne, damn pawpaw your bobbies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-16 03:35:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29943879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmutPrince/pseuds/SmutPrince
Summary: Just some Rusty lusting after Vatred's boobies. His massive fucking tiddies. His super stuffed up milkies. His honker donker boinkie doinkies. His fuckign fabric stretching, wind slapping, gravity welling-Set sometime in season 5.
Relationships: Sergeant Hatred/Rusty Venture
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	What Color Is Your Sports Bra?

It’s torture, is what it is.

A huge set of milky smooth tits, perfect in every way, and they’re attached to Vatred of all people. As if Rusty needed any further evidence that God hated him. When they first appeared, it was manageable. They were nice, yeah, but they were just the right size that they looked like they at least _fit_ Vatred's frame. Now they were just massive. Obnoxiously huge. Dick-breakingly, _painfully_ sexily huge.

Ok, well, maybe they weren’t massive to the point of _ridiculous_ but Rusty was having a hard time lately looking anywhere else but at Vatred’s tits, thinking about anything else but Vatred’s tits, and it was seriously becoming a problem. A daily, nightly—sometimes twice nightly—problem.

So when Rusty walks outside the front door of the compound, following the source of yelling at ten in the fucking morning, he almost immediately drops his mug with a shatter and gapes. Vatred’s the louder source of the yelling, followed close behind by the ex-monarch henchman who’d been squatting in the more dilapidated parts of the compound for the last few months. Rusty can’t even focus enough to try and make out what they’re saying because he is too busy staring at the sports bra—and _it's only a sports bra_ —that Vatred is wearing. His mouth feels like all of the moisture has been sucked out of it and put on his brow line because he is sweating up a storm very suddenly under his robe.

It’s a soft blue, maybe lavender. It’s got a sturdy-looking zipper in the front, securing Vatred’s tits tightly to his chest. It’s plain; just a solid, ordinary fabric. Rusty had seen girls in much finer delicates. Shit, _he’d_ been in nicer lingerie back in his early 30s, but that didn’t stop him from throbbing at the sight of Vatred’s hulking form sporting what has got to be an expensive sports bra. It’s built for durability, and it needs to be because Vatred’s tits hold the knife in the death of many a bra. Rusty swallows, trying to find his voice, but Gary notices him before he can say anything. “You practicing for life drawing, dude? Or are you just gonna stand there like an idiot?” Gary’s pissed off, and he gets a shove in the shoulder from Vatred and a finger pressed hard in his chest. “You better learn some damn respect, son. This guy hasn’t ordered me to kick your sorry ass off his property yet, you should be groveling!” Gary looks like he’s about to size Vatred up, but the older man seems done having a shouting match and spits in the grass before he turns to walk towards a slightly more composed Rusty.

“Doc, you doing alright? You look like you’re gonna be sick.” Vatred looks concerned, putting a large hand on Rusty’s shoulder. Rusty swallows again, thickly, when he really drinks in how much bigger Vatred is than him. The mass isn't all in his chest. “I’m fine, just haven’t had my meds yet,” he mumbles quickly, desperately doing anything he can to not gawk at Vatred’s now _very close to his face_ rack. It’s a herculean task not to bury his head in Vatred’s chest then and there, set up a vacation home, and maybe retire and live there, so he shimmies out from under the larger man’s hand, and turns towards the house. “J-just stop having screaming matches with the weirdo who lives in the bushes and pisses in my garden before noon,” he grumbles, suddenly a lot more cranky than his usual morning mood knowing now he's gonna have to spend an extra hour beating off until he's sore. Rusty remembers his cup of coffee, now broken and scattered all over the concrete, and gestures to it. “And please clean this up, god knows I don’t need the boys screaming to me in my lab about cut—” Rusty turns around to make sure Vatred heard him and his knees damn near give out because he turned around just at the right time to see Vatred leaning over to pick up some of the pieces, his cleavage, tight and full and soft and probably so warm—

Rusty bolts from there, sprinting into the house, leaving Vatred behind. He’s about to open his mouth to shout after the good doctor but hisses instead when he accidentally touches a jagged edge of the coffee mug. “No use calling for him to bring me a broom I guess…” He sighs, rising to his feet and heading towards the door to grab a broom and a bandaid.


End file.
